And All Things Fall
by PhoenixDragonDreamer
Summary: Yeah, Dean Winchester knew America – and She knew and loved him back. Until the Heavens rebelled and Hell opened it’s yawning maw…


_**And All Things Fall…**_

**_By PhoenixDragon_**

_**Warnings: **None - all AU, folks!_

_**Wordcount: **696_

_**Disclaimer: **I own them not..._

_**A/N: **This was originally done for a prompt at au_abc at LJ. Hope you like this!_

_**Summary:** Yeah, Dean Winchester knew America – and She knew and loved him back. Until the Heavens rebelled and Hell opened it's yawning maw…  
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If there was one thing that Dean Winchester knew – it was America.

No, not the happy families behind the white picket fence that America liked to cultivate and believe (or at least, make OTHER countries believe) in. No, he knew the REAL America, the good ol' USofA with her rolling hills, tired expressways, and long stretches of nothing.

He knew her dirty, smog-belching cities, filled with the sounds of people laughing, arguing, and working – the smells of fast-food, hot oil and wet pavement and the sights ranging anywhere from garishly bright to brickwork dull. He knew her towns and countrysides, with their little MomNPop's, filthy, over bright diners, secretive (yet friendly) citizens and broken, potholed roadsides. He knew where the lanes of road stretched on and on, the only sight for miles being hills of blue-green grass, dark hulks of mountains, rushing rivers and granite rockfaces – unmarred by humans, animals or the ruination of anything but stoic silence.

He knew them all – loved them all, their unchanging, unknowing wellsprings of normal and right. It was images that comforted him, gave him a sense of pride, or belonging – and an almost jealous sense of ownership.

Yeah, Dean Winchester knew America – and She knew and loved him back. Until the Heavens rebelled and Hell opened it's yawning maw…

DWDWDWDWDWDWDWDWDWDWDWDWDWDWDWDWDWDWDWDWDWDWDWDWDWDWDWDW

He trudged, weary, resigned and alone down what used to be a backroad to I-71, the empty desolateness of what used to be a busy road reflecting back at him – the tired, aching feel embedded deep in his bones mirrored in the abandoned, grimy landscape –

He had never felt so alone in his life.

He walked for miles and miles, unsure how long or for how many days – trying hard to not stagger from exhaustion, even as his feet blistered and bled within his boots. Obviously, these bitches weren't made for walking. He could feel his mouth twitch into an almost smile at that thought, but the smile faded, walking stuttering to a stop as he looked up the road ahead.

A mummified twist of what used to be a person hung from a broken light-post, swaying and creaking in the quiet deadness of yet another town; the caked dust that coated and clung to damned near everything swirled in little devils across what he could only assume was once an access road. The sky, the road, the grass – all of it – was decidedly…gray.

Who knew that damned Apocalypse could be so damned _dull_? If there had been any of his old sense of humor left in him – anything that hadn't been burned away by the brutal perpetuality of the sun in the dismal, stark sky – he'd've found it all damned funny.

'Hmmm_, Lucie has no imagination…_'

A discreet fluttering behind him and he turned away from the sad, now common sight of the breeze-tossed corpse with an almost relief to face the haunted, dead eyes of his own personal, useless angel.

"You failed…" Castiel intoned, the look in his eyes one of surprise and resignation.

'_Yeah, no shit Sherlock._'

"No, Cas…" Dean sighed, sick to death of Heaven, Hell and almost everywhere in between. "I just haven't succeeded yet."

He turned away from Castiel, giving his back to him and all that he represented, feeling pained and relieved when he heard that soft fall of feathers indicating he was gone. Yeah, they all left him in the end – really shouldn't be a damned surprise. Not like Hell on earth was.

The corpse still swayed lackadaisically in the foul, supraheated air - the only change to the scenery being a small, dirty child playing at the dirt below it's desiccated feet. He huffed a small, chagrined sigh and picked up his duffle, regretting that the Impala was long going to rust at Singer Salvage. The end of the world brought many things – but gas wasn't one of them.

Still he knew where he was going – he knew how to get there.

It was just as matter of one foot in front of the other.


End file.
